


Thoughts That Ran Through Their Minds

by Morningstarofnight



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:19:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morningstarofnight/pseuds/Morningstarofnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of brief one-shots. Because I think way too much about tiny expression changes and brief appearances of flashback characters. Will add to it when I feel like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Priest

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the flashback in 1x13: Diamonds Are Forever. Bible quote at the end is from Mark 16:6, the Douay-Rheims Catholic translation.

**Southwark Prison, 1816**

“I’m Catholic. We believe even when we know we’re wrong.” Whatever the poor man chained to the wall was thinking, its weight was apparent. The priest knew the young man had been transferred from the asylum, but that, in his opinion, meant nothing.

The man looked tired and in pain. Lines of stress and fatigue, carved out of terror, marked his face. Backing off from trying to get him to talk, the priest shuffled across the room to his stool, knowing that the man would talk when he was ready.

**One Month Later**

Henry Morgan seemed resigned to his fate. He looked at the small window from time to time, and at the door, as if he hoped someone might be coming to visit him. Every now and then, when he thought his cellmate wasn’t looking, Henry put his hand to his chest and a strange expression crossed his face. The priest let him have his space. They ate their sparse meals at a comfortable distance. The priest didn’t push conversation, but he never failed to smile whenever Henry glanced his way.

The small kindnesses.

Henry smiled back, sometimes, a brief flicker soon overtaken by a troubled thought.

**Two Months Later**

The priest told him why he was in prison, with a twinkle in his eye that implied he had no regrets. The story made Henry honestly laugh. It wasn’t really that funny, especially in hindsight, but perhaps they both needed the levity.

A guard stomped by and rapped on the bars of the door, shouting at them to be quiet. Henry and the priest sucked in ragged, steadying breaths, fighting to keep down the last remnants of their respective grins.

**Three Months Later**

Henry made strange comments, sometimes. About death. Especially whenever the priest mused on what came after. The priest had not forgotten about the secret Henry kept close to his heart, and for some reason felt it was tied to those comments.

Finally, Henry quietly, hesitantly, leaned in close to the priest and shared a stranger story. A desperation clung to the man’s tone, and the priest listened to every word in wonder. Had God placed this man in his path? Or was it the other way around? Was this the greatest test of his life, to help a guarded and lonely gentleman in a dirty prison cell?

“But do you _believe_ me?” There was that desperation again, almost on the verge of tears.

The priest considered his question. Man was mortal, man knew death as the great equalizer and eventual passage to the afterlife. But perhaps not _this_ man. Immortality, a mark of the divine, although clearly Henry didn’t see it that way. If this man could not find peace in heaven, he would see the world pass by until the day of judgment and beyond. There had to be a purpose to that. God would not rest that burden upon the man’s shoulders if it had no place in the clockwork of the world.

He looked Henry in the eyes and affirmed his faith with all sincerity. No matter the outcome, this man needed someone’s absolute trust. The Lord knew what He was doing.

*     *     *

For one heart-stopping moment, the priest thought—what if I was wrong? _Oh God, please, tell me I have not killed this man._

And the body disappeared, vanishing like fog in the sunlight streaming through the window. The noose swung freely, a heavy weight suddenly gone from its clutches.

Relief flooded the priest, his breaths coming in gasps. He lay there on the floor, staring at the empty space, at the sunlight which seemed brighter somehow, even in the dank interior of the prison. Eventually, he climbed to his feet and undid the knot. For a long while he simply sat on his stool, holding the cloth and head bowed in prayer.

The guards came for him when they made the rounds and found Henry gone without a trace, threatening and shouting. In the midst of the commotion and swearing, the priest lifted his head calmly to the red-faced guard.

“ ‘He is risen, he is not here, behold the place where they laid him.’ ” That particular quote likely counted as blasphemy in this situation, but the priest felt, for the first time in his life, completely at peace. With everything.


	2. The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in 1x15: The King of Columbus Circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This show has too many cinnamon rolls.

Truly, it was a blessing that there was a doctor on the train. The king closed his eyes as a sudden wave of tiredness crashed over him, one arm leaning against the wall. His attendant was talking to the doctor. A quick breath to compose himself, and the king moved into place in the doorway of the compartment. The doctor and his wife looked back in a moment of complete shock. They bowed.

“You saved my son’s life. I bow to you.”

A gesture of deepest respect that went beyond the posturing of royalty and class. The king couldn’t help himself; he threw his body forward, wrapping his arms around the doctor in a hug. He could feel the man’s surprise, entire body frozen for a second before he responded. The corners of his eyes crinkled, holding back tears. His son was alive because of this man, and he knew in his heart that a better life awaited that child.

After dinner, when the king and the doctor sat musing quietly on the edge of the compartment, he thought over his actions as he told the other man the purpose of this journey. He hadn’t meant for there to be so much bloodshed in his country. The political intrigue and deception went on right under his nose, and it was true that he had done terrible things in the name of trying to keep some semblance of peace. But no matter his intentions, he was the king. He knew what fate he was likely going to meet upon his return. A king takes responsibility for what happens to his country and his people, for his own faults and sins as well as those of others that he allowed to slip through under his watch.

His son should not have to answer to that call.


	3. The Doctor #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during 1x02: Look Before You Leap. Titled #1 for now in case I do more from Henry's perspective. Incorporates a bit of what the writers mentioned wanting to include in the theoretical season 2, such as a past family of Henry's.

**New York, 2014**

 

"Do you have a child?"

 

The question stopped him short, made his heart twist. An instant, gut reaction he wanted so badly to let out of his mouth: _Yes_. And it came as a surprise that, in this moment at least, his first thought was not of Abraham. Henry's vision blurred, making it hard to focus on the grieving parents in front of him. They saw something in his eyes, something that made the husband ask that question with hope desperately clinging to his voice, the hope that he and his wife were not alone with this pain. Henry fumbled for words, old memories he thought he had managed to escape playing behind his eyelids.

 

**New York, 1866**

 

After Nora, he fled. He ran as far and as fast as he could. He could barely remember the sea voyage, awareness only returning when he was ashore and in the long line to check for illness. How long had his hands been clenched like this, wrapped around a ship's railing that was no longer beneath his fingers? Henry blinked, flexing the muscles.

 

"Hallo." A soft voice ahead of him, heavily accented German. "You are well?" Henry's head snapped up when a hand touched his, meeting brown eyes and dusty brown hair pulled into a messy bun.

 

"Yes fine, thank you," he whispered back. The woman didn't let go of his hand for a long moment, but the contact didn't make him uncomfortable. For different reasons, fear radiated off of each other. Her slight touch calmed him, reminded him that despite the strangeness of his particular life, the other people in this place shared one thing: the unfamiliarity of yet another new situation, the fear that life was going to throw another obstacle their way, the fear that they would be caught in this limbo of homelessness. Henry took a steadying breath, and nodded at the woman. "Thank you," he repeated, and honestly felt better for it.

 

Her name was Frieda. His son's name was Eldon. He wasn't thinking, couldn't think, somewhere along the way he had been able to forget his curse, forget the reality of his life, forget that for him, mortality was a pretense. Forgot, until--

 

"--truly unfair, Henry," Frieda laughed, combing through her hair. "Look how gray I'm getting, and just look at you, still a handsome devil!"

 

"Nonsense, you're completely beautiful, what does a slight change in color have to do with anything?" Henry teased back, but halfway through the sentence his amusement faltered. Eldon was in the other room, getting older with each passing second.

 

He ran the next day, before he had to watch his son and his wife grow old without him, before he had to watch them die.

 

He had done this before.

 

**Paris, 1818**

 

His daughter's name was Mer. Henry never told her, never told her mother, what their father and husband was. But he tried to follow the priest's order to start over. To use this life. He was happy, for a time, and if he was only a few years older than he should really look, what of it? Plenty of people aged well. But the years continued to pass, and nothing about his own appearance would. Fear crept into his eyes, the growing certainty of the extent of his...'blessing', the priest had called it. Not just the inability to die, Henry thought as his wife found gray hairs, as people began to be surprised that Mer was his daughter. They still laughed it off, still congratulated him on his youthfulness.

 

They had to move once, to a small village on the outskirts of a forest. Mer was upset at leaving the city, but Henry said his wife had long looked forward to a quiet country life. Smallpox claimed his Laurencia (and Henry as well, but painting pockmarks onto his face convinced the people that he was a lucky survivor). But Mer never looked at him the same way after that. Had she watched him die and disappear and return, emerging from the spring in the center of the forest like a grown-up changeling? Henry could no longer remember.

 

But he remembered her in 1842, when Mer was the spitting image of her mother, and in appearance getting close to a match for Henry's age. She looked him in the eye, and marched him before the village, the village that had whispered and rumbled and grown a seed of fear while Henry tried his best to disguise his...'blessing'. He remembered his daughter, he remembered his son, he remembered a rope around his neck and thinking _"This is a blessing this is a blessing this is a blessing--"_

 

        _"I've been hanged for heresy!"_

_"That was a long time ago."_

_"Yes, 172 years and I remember it well!"_

 

**New York, 2014**

 

"I...no, I don't," he lied. Grief constricted around his throat, and now he thought of Abe. Abe, who he would see die. It was inevitable.

 

"Then you can never imagine what we're going through."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, as I prefer to think of the writers' plans for that hypothetical season 2, "how many ways can we further traumatize Henry?"


	4. The Steadfast Woman #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the flashback in 1x22: The Last Death of Henry Morgan.

Her arms clutched empty air. She didn't scream, didn't leap back in fright. She simply stared, hands jerking through that hollow space as if her lover were merely invisible and she could find him again through touch. The street was silent, the gawkers long gone, fled away from the scene of the crime. Had there even been a crime? her mind cried in dismay. There was no blood. The stain on her dress had been wiped clean.

"You won't...understand..."

No, she most certainly didn't. The woman calmly looked at the cobblestone road. He had known exactly what would happen, she decided, and that was why he said such a strange thing in his final words. The woman looked to the heavens. What kind of man knew he would vanish upon his death? What had her Henry done in the past to grant him what some might call a divine blessing? All of a sudden, she understood that his strange scar had both everything and nothing to do with the reason. And with the beginning touches of grief, she realized that she would never get the chance to ask him what it all meant. Where was he? Her gaze remained fixed on the distant stars. The lights obscured some of them, but she knew the pinpricks of light were still there. Her Henry was one of them now? she thought.

For some reason she couldn't believe that was the case.

The woman didn't know how long she sat there, turning circles in her mind to try and figure it out. After a time, however, she got slowly to her feet. Despite the small movement, she swayed, the night around her pressing in. Abraham needed to be taken care of, came the distant recollection. She couldn't leave him alone for so long. She wandered back home, to the small apartment. Still silent. Dressed Abraham in his sleeper, fed him, put him in the crib for the night. Changed to her silk nightdress, Henry's favorite.

She couldn't see the river from her window, but for some reason she turned towards it, where she knew the black waters would be glistening under the stars, lapping tiny waves along the shore like a small memory of the ocean. Henry loved walking with her alongside it, but absolutely refused to dip his feet in the water. "I've been in water far too many times for my own good," he would protest. "There's no need to add extra incidents to the pile." It was such a peculiar quirk and it made her laugh, not quite understanding it but knowing that it seemed like a private joke to Henry.

There was a creak. Abigail jumped. _Just the building settling_ , came the rational thought. A spike of fear shot through her, though, when she realized it came from Abe's room. She listened hard, one hand on the doorframe. Another creak. A slight cry from Abraham, worried bubbling noises drifting to her ears. Abigail marched out of her room, not caring how she was dressed, determined to confront the intruder before they could lay a hand on her child.

Henry, standing over the crib, hat in hand.

Abigail gasped, clutching her hand before her, holding an invisible, missing Henry to her chest. He was back, he was here, he was _alive_. The thoughts whirled through her head. Why hadn't he just come in through the front door like a normal person? Why had he snuck in through the window, scaring her half to death? Why was he _alive_ , why was he alive _, where had he gone?_

Henry lifted his head at the slight sound she made, his own breath quickening. He froze, and Abigail could see terror crawl over him, eat through the expression in his eyes, show itself in his rapid breathing and wary posture, like an animal transfixed by a bright streetlamp, backed against the wall of an alley.

 _He had known exactly what would happen_ , she remembered thinking.

"Abigail," he started, his voice weak. "You...mustn't misunderstand what you... _think_ you saw, there's a perfectly...logical...explana--"

"Shhh." She needed time to think, even as she approached him.

He had known exactly what would happen.

He was the kind of man who knew that upon his death, he would vanish.

He had known.

                    _Because it had happened before._

Abigail's hands reached up, unbidden, to stroke his face. She could feel the tremors running through him, a barely withheld instinct to run run _run_.

Another thought.

                    _How long?_

 _Long enough to make him afraid_. Long enough to make him write a letter the day after they met, telling her in vague terms that "it wouldn't work, it _couldn't_ work."

But surely, she thought, it was a miracle. He was alive again.

He was alive.

                    _He had no choice._

He had snuck in through the window.

                    _This had happened before._

It would continue to happen.

                    _How long?_

Would he age. Would he die. Would he vanish.

                    _How many times?_

How many times had her Henry known to leave in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye, because he could no longer hide his strange life? But he couldn't leave Abraham, not this time. He wasn't going to let him go.

                    _How long?_

Maybe forever.

                    _"You_

_poor_

_man."_

He melted into her embrace, breathing finally settling, finally relaxing. Her arms hugged only his head, combing lightly through his hair. He seemed confused, uncertain, as if no one had loved him in a long, long time. She could feel the smile on his face, the soft warmth of his breath against her neck. She thought, _he can hardly believe what I'm doing_. She put a voice to her thoughts.

"How _long?_ " came the whisper.

He moaned quietly into her hair, and murmured of lifetimes.


	5. The Detective #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during 1x11: Skinny Dipper.

Something about this case got to Henry, she noticed. The taxi, still dripping from where it had been towed out of the river, was completely empty; no blood, no body, but Henry looked at the vehicle as if it contained something terrible beyond imagination. His mind seemed somewhere else, his footsteps slowed to a halt. She gently pressed him, reminding him he needed to get close to the crime scene to be of any help.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched her strange friend in the back seat of the taxi. His movements were slow, and his eyes looked sadly at the door. She walked around to where he was sitting, suddenly concerned. The detective followed Henry's gaze, to where it lingered on deep, panicked scratches around the door handle. She suppressed a shudder of her own. "Looks like someone was desperate to get out," she spoke, trying to hide the nervous edge to her voice. Henry didn't answer, just stared at the scratches with that same lost expression.

She shook herself. If there was no body in the car, then whoever had been inside must have gotten out. Obviously.

Then, when she walked to the other side of the car, finishing up the sweep, she saw Henry reaching carefully for something shiny and gold. The detective ducked down and snagged the item, her hand seizing around it in shock when she realized what it was. "Henry, this is your watch!"

"What?" Hanson looked over from where he was still investigating the passenger seat.

All the detective could think about was the first time she had found the watch somewhere; that train car full of people who had been killed. The train car Henry had at least passed through. Her mind whirled for a moment, taking in Henry's frozen, almost fearful, face. The way he had _looked_ at those terrified scratch marks...

"Yeah, he must have dropped it," the detective recovered. Of course Henry hadn't been in the car. He'd been busy sleepwalking himself naked into the river. In the middle of the night. Probably around the same time the taxi was stolen.

Hadn't Henry gotten into a taxi the night he was arrested?

The thought refused to leave her head, even as she dismissed it.


	6. The Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the flashback in 1x10: The Man in the Killer Suit.

He thought about that day often, as each anniversary came and went, slipping away along with the impact of the event itself. He didn't think he'd ever forget the doctor, though. Head tucked down, eyes angry and firm, striding across the battlefield as if no part of it scared him. Stopping to check every body for a pulse. The soldier tried to keep his mind on his own skin, but he couldn't get it out of his head that the doctor was going to get himself killed, standing around like that.

He saw it coming, too. The screeching whistle through the air, almost directly at the doctor as he bent over a young man struggling to breathe. The soldier opened his mouth to shout a warning, but then everything was noise and shaking and slicing pain that forced him to the ground. Although his eyes were shut tight against the sand and the pain, he knew without looking that the doctor was dead now. His body had been thrown off its feet like his daughter's Raggedy Ann doll. No one moved like that and lived, he knew.

(And did not know that moments later, a naked man rose from the breaking waves, grabbed a long trenchcoat off of a corpse, wrapped it around himself, picked up a stray medical kit, and strode out again once more, head tucked down, eyes angry and firm.)

* * *

 

He liked to sit on a bench in the park and just breathe. Listen to the everyday noises of traffic nearby, distant horns and sirens, and laughter of people at peace on the warm summer's day. His cane rested gently against his leg. Twinges ran through it often, as they always would, the soldier figured.

"...gray hair is flaking on your shoulders..." A woman's voice carried the peculiar sentence to his ears.

"I should start wearing a hat." The man she was with seemed familiar somehow, and the soldier leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better look as the man furtively twisted his head from side to side, clearly worried.

The couple parted ways, and suddenly the soldier knew the man. The profile, the tucked-down head. He quickly got to his feet, struggling forward faster than he had thought he could move. "Doctor Henry Morgan!" he called after the man.

With a pleasant smile, the stranger turned, and yes, the soldier knew his face. Clearly, the other man didn't recognize him.

"I thought it was you." 

Something in Morgan's smile faltered, just slightly. The slip was enough for the soldier to catch, though, and he fixed the strange man, or whatever he was, with a steady gaze and issued his challenge: "I saw you hit by an artillery shell on the beach at Normandy." The other man was backing away now, some kind of fear being carefully repressed and schooled behind that human mask.

The soldier leaned more heavily to favor his leg, his expression stony as he reminded him of what had happened to him. Morgan tried to dissuade the soldier with a fake accent, but it was long too late for that. Not after the doctor had answered to the name.

The doctor turned and walked away, just short of running in fear.

"I've seen a lot of ghosts, Dr. Morgan, but none so real as you!" The soldier called after him. He didn't pursue the man further that day, though, and by the time he was able to do any real digging into the history of the unageing, undying man, he knew he would never see that man again for as long as he lived.

* * *

 

The soldier stood in the doorway of the apartment, furniture still in place, dust just beginning to settle onto the chairs and tables. It had the same feel as the abandoned farmhouses he'd passed through in Europe, an empty, lonely place that held no memories now apart from the clinging terror of what had caused the occupants to flee. He didn't trespass further than the unlocked door, suddenly filled with a deep shame.

 

 


End file.
